Symptoms and sarcasm
by 221Bme
Summary: Sherlock gets home late, and John begins to wonder if perhaps geniuses DO occasionally get a little ill.
1. Not good in the least

The digital clock blinked 11:35 pm when Sherlock finally got home.

Of course, the fast hands of the wall clock told a little later story, but late was late.

_John wasn't going to nitpick._

"_Finally_." He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at the detective sternly. "You said you'd be home two hours ago. I left dinner out for you, but it's gone cold. And you missed the special on the telly."

Sherlock just shrugged.

He didn't bother answering or even removing his coat or shoes, and instead retired directly to the sofa, where he let himself slump over and settle facedown on the cushions.

"Git..." John sighed, rolling his eyes. "You could have at least called..."

He considered getting the detective a blanket, but seeing as he was still fully clothed John decided against it, since it would just encourage him to stay where he was and get his dress shirt all wrinkled.

He had to be babysat, sometimes.

_The arse._

But seeing as it was late, and he wasn't likely to get any sort of conversation going with the prone consulting detective, John elected to hit the sack. He looked over the few dirty dishes that were left in the sink, and told himself he'd get them done tomorrow.

He _would._

_If_ time allowed.

With one last weary sigh he padded down the hall and up the stairs, leaving Sherlock where he'd flopped.

"G'night, Sherlock..."

* * *

Something had woken John.

He sat up in the dark, blinking, but he didn't hear anything. Maybe it had been his imagination...?

Regardless, he was soon becoming aware of how dry his throat was, and he slid out of bed with the intention of going to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. His bare feet hit the floor with a soft thud, and he stretched, his back popping.

Down the stairs and through the hall found him at his destination, but there he found that all the lights were still on, just as he'd left them hours earlier.

_Git..._

He squinted through the sudden light, and could make out the detective still lying on the sofa, now curled up with his back to the room.

Asleep?

He ought to sleep in his bedroom, not the living room.

But that wasn't _completely_ unexpected for Sherlock.

John shook his head tiredly and fumbled his way over to the sink, where he poured himself a glass from the tap and leaned back against the counter to drink it.

After a while he lowered the glass from his lips, tilting his head quizzically.

_Was that sound coming from Sherlock...?_

_Surely not..._

He set his water aside as quietly as he could and tiptoed closer to the sofa, listening intently.

_Yes..._

That rasping sound did indeed seem to be originating from Sherlock's lungs.

John frowned, looking down at him.

_That didn't sound good._

_Not good in the least._


	2. Influenza

As John stood there Sherlock stirred slightly and a rough, dry cough escaped him, and John's eyebrows rose.

_Okay... That might just be what had woken him earlier..._

He moved closer and laid a hand on the detective's forehead-and then drew it back with a huff, muttering under his breath, "Jesus, Sherlock... You're burning up..."

He had just taken it as moodiness when he had last seen him, but now with the cough and fever mixed in John realised that he _did_ look rather miserable, curled there on the sofa, locked in a fitful sleep. The last thing John wanted to do was wake him, for both their sakes-but he knew he needed to.

"Sherlock." He shook him gently by the shoulder, speaking softly. "Sherlock, wake up. I need to take your temperature."

He was met with a low groan, and Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. It took a moment for him to focus and wake up fully, but when he did he let his head roll back with a heavy exhale of distress.

"I'm sorry... I'll just get the thermometer and be right back, okay?" John straightened up, waiting in vain for a reply, and then padded off to the bathroom.

He poked about in the medicine cabinet a while, hoping against hope that Sherlock hadn't seen fit to use the thermometer for some disgusting experiment, _of course_ neglecting the fact that one day they'd actually have need of it. Fortunately, though, he eventually found it hiding behind a box of gauze, and was soon back by the detective's bedside.

Sherlock had curled up further, tucking his coat up to his chin. He looked up at John with weary eyes, watching him mutely.

"Okay. Open up." John held out the thermometer, and Sherlock gazed at it for a moment before he accepted it.

"J'hn..."

"Hush, don't talk, you'll mess up the readout." When it finally beeped John retrieved it and busied himself analysing the numbers, and a frown creased his brow. "38.3C..."

Sherlock drew in another scratchy breath, but it caught in his throat and he was wracked with another bout of coughs.

"I'll get you some water, alright?" John was soon back with a fresh glass, handing it to the detective carefully to make sure he didn't spill any.

When at last Sherlock was settled back again, John began his doctor's interrogation.

"Aside from the fever, how are you feeling? Symptoms?"

Sherlock's voice was hoarse and thick, and he pulled his coat tighter around himself. "Cold..."

"Okay, chills. What else? Headache?"

Sherlock nodded. "Mmhm..."

"How about body aches? Sore throat?"

"_Everything_ hurts..."

John nodded, rocking back on his heels. "Sounds like the flu alright."

Sherlock just looked up at him, eyes narrowing dubiously. "._..I don't get the flu._"

"Well then, I'll just go back to bed. If you don't get the flu, then what am I doing up taking care of you?" John's brows arched sarcastically, but he made no move to go to bed.

Instead he left Sherlock to brood quietly while he fetched a few blankets from the hall closet, and came back to arrange them around the detective's shoulders. He smiled slightly, but pretended he hadn't heard the little sigh of relief that left Sherlock's lips as he nestled deeper into his new cocoon of warm blankets and couch cushions.

"We really should get you changed out of your coat and jacket..."

But Sherlock shook his head. "Too cold."

John hesitated, but decided to let it go for now. Rest would be the best thing for it, in the meantime.

"Do you need anything else? Tea, maybe?"


	3. Or something

_"Do you need anything else? Tea, maybe?"_

Sherlock's stomach lurched at the very thought of it, and his sore throat rebelled, making him cough again.

_He didn't want anything._

_He would just be sicker._

_And this was already misery._

He shook his head, curling into the blanket's warm embrace and letting the comfort of it seep into his aching bones and muscles. And suddenly...

Too hot.

_Way too hot._

He struggled to push it off of himself, but found to his dismay that it was much harder than he had anticipated, and he tried not to wheeze with the effort.  
John had been watching him, and now leaned over and gently untangled the blankets from Sherlock's limbs. The cool air was a relief on his feverish skin, and he breathed a silent thanks to his blogger for being so patient with something as silly as this.

_He ought not to be this sick._

_He had a fairly strong immune system._

_Didn't he?_

He never got sick, usually. At least, nothing he couldn't manage with a little moping and lying about.

_This was an abnormality._

_An acute anomaly._

And he cursed it for lowering him to such a helpless state, when he had things to do and cases to solve.

John was watching him. "Are you sure? It might help soothe your throat."

Sherlock shook his head, in his mind zeroing in on what he really did want: a lozenge. He opened his mouth to speak-but the action set off another volley of unavoidable hacking.

_That stupid itch in the back of his throat..._

"Alright..." John began again. "How about some cough medicine? It'll be vile-tasting, but it should help that nasty cough you've got."

_Bless John._

_Bless him for knowing just what to do, for being a doctor, and a good attendant._

_And fucking curse the flu._

* * *

It had been about twenty minutes since Sherlock had fallen back asleep.

In the hour before that John had fetched him water several times, as well as a bottle of cough syrup, which he'd measured out into a spoon and held out to the detective. Sherlock had eyed it warily, suddenly very put off by the hideous, sickly-sweet smell of it.

"Come on. Just take it, it'll help." John had stood there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other while Sherlock gazed up at him with plaintive eyes and wayward curls.

"...No."

"Sherlock. Take it. One spoonful."

"_No_."

"Take the damn medicine, okay?"

"I'll live with the cough."

"_Like hell you will._ I want to be able to sleep too, you know."

Sherlock had pulled a stubborn pout, and John exhaled loudly in exasperation.

_Damn him._

_Damn Sherlock Holmes, the big baby._

"I'll stop getting you water."

"Then I'll drink blood."

"Wha-? Okay, fine. I'll turn the heat off."

"Then you'll be cold too."

"Sherlock, take the _fucking_ medicine before I strangle you with my bare hands."

This had elicited a wan smirk from the detective, and he'd reached out and taken the spoon from John, swallowing the pinkish-coloured syrup in one go, and making a horrible face and nearly gagging a moment later.

"I told you it would be vile." John snipped, taking the spoon back and heading to the kitchen.

Soon enough Sherlock's ragged voice came to him from the living room.

"John..."

"What now?"

"Thanks, or something..."


	4. SHHH

It was nearly 7 'o'clock in the morning when John finally let himself collapse into bed, satisfied that he'd done all he could for now.

Sherlock was sleeping, and John would have to grab his own rest when he could get it. He would call in to work and tell them he wouldn't be able to make it, and then he'd probably spend the next few days homebound, caring for the stricken consulting detective.

_What a relaxing holiday._

He sighed and settled in, and within just a minute or so he had drifted off the cushy, precipitous cliff of sleep.

* * *

It felt as if it were barely a few seconds later that he was woken by the blaring voice of a car alarm somewhere down on the street.

_Damn it..._

He groaned and glanced over at his alarm clock, which was now silently screaming _12:14 PM_ in all orange neon.

_Okay... He'd really slept in..._

_Still tired..._

John reached up and dragged a hand across his face. He lay there for a while before he finally sat up and swung his legs off the side of the bed.

_That car alarm was still at it..._

He pulled on a jumper and a fresh pair of trousers before making his way down to the living room.

"Sherlock? You awake?" He honestly wasn't sure, considering that the detective was lying face down on the sofa, with several cushions pulled over his head and a blanket draped over it all.

But as he spoke Sherlock moved slightly, if only to tense and shift away a bit.

John frowned. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's voice came to him, very muffled and still thick-sounding. "_SHHH_."

"What?"

"_Quiet._ Don't... make a... sound..."

John bit his lip and came closer, making sure to tiptoe as best he could. He lowered his voice to a near-whisper. "Have you got a headache, then?"

"_Shh_..."

He supposed that would be a yes.

Understandable.

That car alarm must be proper hell for him like this.

"I'll get you a painkiller. I think we still have a couple left over..." John stepped back as Sherlock groaned quietly, though whether in agreement or pain, he couldn't tell. "Sorry. Be right back, then."


	5. Trust me

John had just gone out to grab a few things at the shop when he got the text message.

He was examining the selection of various flu meds when he felt the buzz in his pocket, and absently dug out his mobile to check it.

**1 new message:**

_'John. Question. Very important.' -SH_

Balancing the basket on one arm, John sighed and awkwardly managed to tap out a reply.

_'Yes?' -JW_

On to check out the chicken broth...

_'As a doctor, how do you feel about assisted suicide?' -SH_

_'What? Sherlock what kind of question is that? Why?' -JW_

_'Inexplicably miserable. Answer my question.' -SH_

_'I'm against them, if you're the one asking.' -JW_

_'Remove me from the equation, then. Consider that I'm miserable.' -SH_

_'You have the flu.' -JW_

_'Everything hurts.' -SH_

_'Yes. Flu. Don't scare me like that-it wasn't funny.' -JW_

_'Not trying to be funny... I'm suffering...' -SH_

John drew in a deep, calming breath and let it out in a long sigh, pausing to lean subtly against a shelf of tinned tomatoes to write out a proper response.

_'I'm at the shop. Maybe I can get you something that would help?' -JW_

_'Nothing you'd like me to say.' -SH_

_'What is that supposed to mean?' -JW_

_'Nothing at Sainsbury's is inherently lethal.' -SH_

That man...

_'For the last time, nobody is assisting anybody's suicide. It's just the flu. You'll feel awful for a few days, and then you'll be fine.' -JW_

There was silence from the phone for several minutes, and John found himself checking back to it several times, just to be sure.

Sherlock Holmes was a drama queen.

But that hadn't been funny.

Not in the least.

John let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding when at last another text came in.

_'Bring me tea. And something for nausea.' -SH_

Okay...

_'Have you eaten anything in the last day?' -JW_

_'I've felt ill for nearly two. Come to your own conclusions.' -SH_

That would be part of it...

_'I'm making chicken soup, then. Be home in twenty.' -JW_

_'I don't want any soup.' -SH_

_'I know, but trust me. It helps.' -JW_

Trust me.


	6. Don't touch me, I'm sick

When John at last climbed the steps and opened the door to 221B his arms were laden with grocery bags, and he was quick to drop them off on the kitchen counter.

Only after that did he turn his attention to the consulting detective seated on the edge of the sofa, eyes shut and head down, quite still.

He seemed to be focussing on breathing.

"Sherlock...? Are you alright?" John crossed the living room and approached him, with the intent to feel his forehead to see if he was still feverish. But as he raised his hand the still statue of a detective spoke, as if he could predict John's movements without looking.

"_Don't._"

John frowned, pausing. "What?"

"_Don't... touch me... or I'll vomit._"

He took a step back preemptively. "...Are you warning me, or threatening?"

Sherlock didn't open his eyes, but he did arch his brows and set his jaw, which John took to mean '_a little of both.'_

"Er... I'll get you a bowl, just in case." He backed away a little more and retreated to the kitchen. "But earlier you said you hadn't eaten in almost two days-I doubt there's really much to come up."

He waited in vain for a reply as he set an empty bowl on the coffee table before Sherlock. "...I did get you some medicine to help with the nausea, though. I want you to take some of that, and if it's any better in an hour I'll get you some soup, yeah?"

Sherlock feigned a slight dry heave at the mere mention of soup. At least, John _hoped_ it was feigned.

_Doctor or not, vomit never did get fun._

"I said... I didn't want any soup."

"I know. But you're sick. Chicken soup is the best thing for it, aside from plenty of rest, fluids, and any necessary medication. Something about the proteins in it or whatnot. I don't know."

Sherlock just scowled sullenly and stayed exactly where he was.

He even took a deep breath, as if to reiterate his prior threat.

_Maybe 'I don't know' wasn't good enough?_

_Well dammit, it would have to be._


	7. Humour me?

The medicine seemed to work.

For the nausea, at least.

It did not, however, stop Sherlock from moping about in the armchair, moaning over how terribly ill he was. He remained wrapped up in blankets, bare feet pulled up onto the seat of the chair, curly hair unkempt and his pale cheeks flushed. The very picture of unhappiness.

But it would pass in a few days.

That was what he continued to remind the consulting detective of as John busied himself a few feet away in the kitchen, preparing the soup he knew Sherlock didn't want but ultimately, probably, needed.

_Not eating wasn't any good for a sick man._

Of course, it still wasn't any better when he was well, but that was a different matter.

John would deal with that later.

For now, getting him better was the main objective.

* * *

"Here. Eat it while it's hot, it's better that way." John held out the steaming bowl of chicken soup-carefully homemade, using a recipe John had found online from the BBC-but Sherlock only turned his head away.

"Don't want it."

"Oh _come on..._" John pursed his lips. "I made it 'specially for you."

"Nope."

The doctor shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the heat of the bowl becoming uncomfortable against his fingers. "Please?"

"_No._"

"It'll help. Make you feel a little better." John held out the bowl again, but Sherlock pulled the blankets up to his eyes, glaring up at him over the rumpled fabric.

"What part of _'no'_ don't you understand?"

John heaved a heavy sigh. "The part where you're ill and haven't eaten in two days. Humour me?"

The detective regarded him for a long moment through narrowed eyes.

_The fever had come back again._

_37.4 Celsius._

_Almost a match for his hot temper._

"..._Humour you?_" Sherlock pulled the blankets completely over himself, disappearing under a mountain of duvets and muffled voice. "_**...No.**_"


	8. To fuss or not to fuss

The bowl sat untouched on the coffee-table, sending up little tendrils of velvety steam that swirled toward the ceiling, losing themselves halfway up and vanishing into nothingness.

A silence hung in the air for several minutes, while John sat on the edge of the sofa, partway between annoyed and cross, and Sherlock remained hidden in his blanket cave.

_To fuss or not to fuss?_

_To push or to quit?_

John's gaze went from the bowl, to the mound of the blanket-detective, and back again.

It didn't look like it would be much use, honestly.

_But the man had to eat._

After another minute or so Sherlock began shoving the blankets off himself, apparently overheating again, and probably running out of fresh air beneath them. He glanced up, raising an eyebrow at finding John still sitting there.

_Surely he knew what the doctor was thinking about._

John shot him a look, and Sherlock merely sighed. He resettled himself in a more comfortable position, regarding John with as much of a deep, musing air as he could muster. When at last he spoke it was slowly, as if considering how to put it.

"...I've been ill before, you know."

John nodded, brow furrowed questioningly. "Honestly, I'd be surprised if you hadn't."

"When I was young, I mean. Twelve, or so. Mycroft had left for university, and I was sick all by myself."

"What about your parents?"

Sherlock only shrugged. "They were overseas on business at the time. They left a lot."

John suddenly found himself picturing that-an empty house, quiet for days, while a young Sherlock moped about, probably failing miserably to care for himself while the sickness took its course.

And he couldn't help but find it a little sad.

"The only thing I had the energy to prepare then was a pitiful tin of chicken soup." Sherlock was looking at him expectantly. "You see where I'm going with this?"

"I'm... not really sure I do."

_John would just pretend he hadn't seen that impatient little roll of the eyes..._

"It was mediocre, to say the least. But shortly thereafter I became sicker than I'd been for two days, and... suffice it to say I can't even bring myself to look at the stuff anymore."

"Oh..." _That would make sense... In more ways than one._ "So... it brings back bad memories, then?"

"Exactly. I won't go into detail, but at one point I was nearly certain that I was dead."

The corner of John's lips almost turned up in vague amusement-_almost._ "I don't suppose I'd want to remember being sick alone, either."

"No. You certainly wouldn't. It's highly unpleasant."

"I mean... being alone..."

"Exactly. It makes it twice as hard to do anything yourself."

"...Yeah. For days at a time. Alone."

Sherlock gave him a funny look, tilting his head slightly, as if wondering why on earth John was repeating himself.

Maybe he didn't get it.

Maybe he didn't _want_ to.


End file.
